A Sense of Purpose
by bemj11
Summary: Lestrade finds out that Watson is not coping well with the loss of his wife. The Inspector steps in and tries to help, but the good Doctor is rather lost and in desperate need of a sense of purpose. Lestrade POV. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: This is set after The Final Problem, shortly after Mary Watson's death. It is also a prequel, of sorts, to my story, Police Surgeon? Hope you like it.

* * *

The young lady who stood before me looked familiar, somehow, but I simply could not place her. She fidgeted nervously, and I reluctantly set my papers down, indicating that she had my complete attention.

"May I help you, Miss?" I asked, standing. I offered her the other chair, and regained my seat as she perched warily on the edge of the other.

"I don't know sir, that is, I mean-" the young lady faltered, and I found myself wishing she had chosen someone more suited to calming down distressed women. My own Elisabeth rarely found herself distressed or emotionally unstable, and as a result, I was often at a loss when dealing with the more irrational members of the opposite sex.

"Take a deep breath, and tell me why you have come." I said. She nodded, and breathed.

"My employer is missing." She said at last. "He wasn't at work today. I went to his home, but the door was unlocked, the house quiet. I think something horrible has happened, sir!"

I frowned. "You went to his home yourself." I said, and she flushed.

"Well, sir, since his wife died, he would throw himself into his work, but he didn't always take good care of himself. It was like he didn't care or didn't notice anymore. He nearly collapsed on me one day, and I learned he hadn't eaten since sometime the day before, maybe in even longer, he wasn't sure. His house wasn't far, and so I closed for the day and took him home to get some food and rest.

The young lady tilted her head back defiantly. "I know it's not proper, and I don't care. You don't know the man, so you wouldn't understand. He's good, and kind, and selfless, and a gentleman, and would never dream of doing anything improper."

I nodded, mainly so she would not think I did not believe her, and she calmed. "In that way I learned that his wife had been doing all the housework, and that he did not have a maid." Her eyes softened. "Poor man, for all his goodness, doesn't have any close family or friends, no one to watch out for him, and he had been trying to keep the place up on his own.

"So I started stopping by after work, and would make sure he had eaten something that day. And then he was going out so often that when I stopped by and he was gone, I just took the opportunity to help out a bit with some of the work, and of course he insisted on paying me for it, and it got to be a regular thing.

"But then he wasn't at work today, and he never misses work, not since his wife died, and like I said, nobody was at his house. I don't know what's happened to him, Inspector, but I fear it's something horrible."

"And your employer, he held what occupation?" I asked quickly, hoping to distract the woman from her impending hysterics.

"He was a doctor." _That_ hit close to home. I had been meaning to visit Doctor Watson after _his_ loss, but had never gotten around to it.

"Name?" I asked.

My heart stopped when she answered me. "Doctor John Watson."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes not does not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: Inspector Lestrade seems to have captured my imagination. I like writing him, though, so it's okay. He's very nice about it, and says that as far as the antagonism that sometimes arises between Mr. Holmes and himself, if you worked with the amateur detective you would be a little antagonistic towards the man as well.

* * *

We stopped by the Doctor's practice, just to be certain he had not come in, before heading to his home. I paused to knock at the door, but when no one answered I opened it and went right in.

The rooms were a shadow of what they had been when Mrs. Watson had been alive, and I again felt guilty. It was true that the Doctor, for all his goodness, had few close friends. I should have thought to at least check in on him now and again. I owed him that much.

I quickly searched the downstairs, and found no sign of the man, though it seemed he had been as recently as the night before. I frowned, and headed upstairs.

I needn't have bothered with the guest room, but checked anyway to be thorough. I found his bedroom dark and cold, but there was something-

I sent the young lady downstairs on the pretence of having her check the washroom, as a brief glimpse had shown that he was not there. Once she was gone, I went still and listened.

I heard it then, barely. Someone breathing lightly. I fumbled for a light and went towards the sound. I swore as I found the source.

In the small space between the bed and the wall lay the Doctor.

He was unconscious. It seemed he had hit his head, though I had no idea what had caused him to fall. He was so thin, it reminded me of when we had first met. His face was troubled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was also sweating.

I checked to be sure there was no further injury, and struggled to move him out from behind the bed. As thin as he was, it was no easy feat, and I was panting as I knelt beside him in the middle of the room.

He had a fever, but the wound on his head was not bad. I called for the young lady downstairs to bring some water and a rag, and began trying to wake the Doctor up.

His eyes finally opened, and focused upon me in confusion. "Lestrade?" He mumbled. "What?"

I let out a sigh of relief. "What have you been doing to yourself, Doctor?" I asked. "Your receptionist was alarmed when you didn't show up for work today."

Doctor Watson frowned. "Today?" He said weakly. "It was – I was." He frowned.

I was scared. So was the young lady as she set the basin down. I didn't bother trying to reassure her, but instead sent her for my wife. Lizzie was the next best thing to a doctor, when it came down to it.

"What's the last thing you remember?" I asked as the young girl darted off. I reached for the rag and began wiping the blood off the Doctor's face. "You hit your head when you fell." I explained.

He frowned. "It was late at night. I had just gotten in. It was a rather long day, I fear." He considered. "I must have tripped on my way to bed." He confessed.

"Well, you're lucky your receptionist was worried." I said with forced lightness. "Let's see if we can't get you off the floor."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes not does not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

"He'll be fine." Lizzie said as she sat down by me. "He's just overreached himself. He's overworked, hasn't been taking care of himself, got exposed to a minor cold from one of his patients and couldn't fight it off." She glared at me, as if I should know exactly what she was talking about.

Which I did. She had accused me of the same sort of foolishness a number of times. "He'll be all right, though." I said.

My wife sighed. "He's grief stricken, and using work to distract himself from the pain. He'll kill himself if he's not careful." She looked me dead in the eye. "He needs someone to keep an eye on him, especially while he's recovering from this."

I knew what she was saying. I groaned, and immediately felt guilty for it. "If you think so, love." I told her.

"I do. He doesn't need to be alone." She considered. "But let him sleep while he can. Stop by after work, Giles, and we'll take him home then."

"He won't like this." I cautioned. My wife merely looked at me.

"Does that matter?" She asked.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Not with you." I replied. "Never with you. I'll be back before you know it."

"Leave a note that the practice will be closed for a while." She said as I stood to go.

"I shall pay a visit to one of Doctor Watson's colleagues." I informed her. "I'm sure he would be glad to help."

She nodded, and smiled sadly as her mind went back to the Doctor's situation. "I didn't know there were two of you." She mused. "We should have kept in touch after her death, Giles."

"Don't I know it." I agreed wholeheartedly, swallowing my guilt as I prepared to leave. "Take good care of him, Lizzie."

"You do your job, Inspector," she teased lightly, "and leave me to do mine."

I sighed as I stepped out onto the street. I should have been watching for something like this.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

"Something smells good!" I called as I entered the house and headed straight to the washroom.

"Shut your gob!" Came the swift and familiar, if uncouth, retort.

"I'm not actually asleep right now." I heard someone defend me wearily. I checked the bottle in the washroom automatically, but found no notes beneath. Caring for the Doctor was keeping my wife busy.

"You're _resting_." Came the reminder. "You need peace so you can recover."

"No sense arguing with her!" I called as I cleaned up. Lizzie wouldn't let me set foot anywhere else in the house until I was 'somewhat clean.'

"I heard that!" My wife called back. "I know you said the couch is comfortable-"

"Not that comfortable!" I retorted. I was gratified to hear the Doctor's laugh, though it was only a shadow of what it had been in the past. As much as I hated flaunting our relationship in front of people, if it did the man good-

He had been with us for almost a week now, and it had frightened me that so far he had not raised any more fuss about being here than a weary remark about not wanting to impose that my wife had quickly dismissed as a ridiculous notion.

Doctor Watson's colleague Dr. Anstruther had agreed to take care of making sure the Doctor's practice was seen to while he was ill. I got the feeling that he too felt guilty about not keeping a closer eye on Doctor Watson. He had assured me that the practice would be cared for until the Doctor was well enough to return to it, and not to let the man worry about it.

Under my wife's strict care, the man had been getting plenty of rest and food, and seemed to be recovering well, at least physically. Mentally he still seemed a shadow of a person, a ghost, and I wondered that I had not noticed it before.

Then again, I had been too busy rousing the wrath of the newspapers with Gregson to attend the funeral, though Hopkins had said the Doctor had looked terrible.

I wondered if Doctor Watson had realized the two of us had not been at the funeral. I did not doubt that he would not have mentioned it if he had, but sometimes I wondered.

"Shoes!" My wife called. How did she even know I hadn't changed them, anyway?

"I didn't forget!" I called back irritably. I was tired, and sore. "I'll clean it up, love, I swear!"

"Hands bothering you?" Doctor Watson inquired as I all but fell into the armchair. I indulged in a long, weary sigh. I was glad the day was over.

"Idiot drunk was looking for a fight." I grumbled, to irritated to bother being polite in my own home. "Either to dumb or too drunk to recognize that I was an Inspector. He staggered over and started remarking on my size, and my stride, I guess he noticed it was a little off when I came in. When I just ignored him he picked up his cane and brought them down across my hands where I had them on the table." The Doctor winced in sympathy.

"And then?" He asked.

"And then I turned around, removed the cane from his possession, and clapped a pair of derbies on him. Then I introduced myself as Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Turned white as a sheet."

The Doctor snorted. "You let him go?"

"With a stern warning not to go causing any more trouble." I replied, flexing my fingers painfully. "Wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't been abusing them in that fight yesterday." I admitted.

Watson smiled, a little, and rose up off the couch. "Let me see." He said, briskly, his manner more like his old self at the idea of treating someone. I let him, mostly because I was too tired not to. But I was thinking, now.

"You are not supposed to be up." My wife scolded, banishing the Doctor back to the couch. "Stick your feet out, love."

"You're cooking." I protested. Lizzie rolled her eyes.

"Olivia is fourteen now, and fully capable of minding the kitchen." She informed me as she started unlacing my shoes. She wrinkled her nose as she pulled them off and went to set them by the door.

"My other pair, please." I called. I knew better.

"I don't know why you bother owning a pair of slippers." She complained.

"Because my family seems to think I need them." I retorted. "I made the mistake of wearing slippers once."

"I remember." She said quietly as she brought my other pair over.

"Thank you." I said as she finished. She smiled, and headed for the washroom.

The Doctor once again had that lost look. I took a breath to steady myself. "You miss your practice." I said. He looked up at me, startled.

"Yes." He said finally. "It gave me something to do. Distracted me." He confessed. "Made me tired enough to sleep for a few hours."

"You look healthier." I said awkwardly. "But less at peace."

He sighed. We were on unfamiliar territory now. "I'm lost." He confessed. "I'm fine while I'm busy. But as soon as I got home…"

"It was empty. And not just the house. Everything was." I remembered that feeling. I was glad it hadn't lasted.

Doctor Watson swallowed. "How did you keep from going crazy?" He asked.

I didn't answer. I had clung desperately to the hope that it wouldn't last. That we would get her back.

"Your children." He finally said. "You had to stay strong for them." I nodded.

"Beyond that, I have the job." I confessed. "I would have thrown myself into it, I suppose. There's always one more case."

The Doctor was looking thoughtful.

A knock sounded on the door, and a second later Inspector Bradstreet tumbled in. "Trouble, Inspector. Another body's been found, though this one's not quite dead yet."

I was out of my chair in an instant, and throwing apologies at my wife. "Go on." She said mildly. "We'll keep supper warm for you."

The Doctor was looking lost again as I grabbed my coat and hat. On impulse, I tossed his coat to him. "We may need a hand." I said. "Are you up to it?"

He was up and across the room in seconds. It was more life than he had shown in the entire week.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

"It was nothing." I stared at the man before me.

Nothing? I pulled off my coat and hung it and my hat. Then I turned back to the Doctor.

Nothing?

Not only had he managed to pull the man from the brink of death, but he had also at the same time managed to get an extremely detailed description not only of what had happened, but of the man who had tried to murder him.

We had the murderer in jail tonight because of that, and the Doctor thought of it as nothing.

"Do you think there's any dinner left?" He asked sheepishly.

I blinked. Then I answered. "My wife is used to me keeping odd hours." I confessed. "There will still be food."

"Good." The Doctor said. "I'm starving."

He had an appetite tonight. That was good. We made it to the kitchen, after stopping by the washroom, of course.

He dug into his meal eagerly, his mind still on what had happened earlier that night. I was content to eat in silence, and was pleased that the Doctor seemed distracted from his own problems as he mulled over what I had told him of the case. I could almost see him thinking, trying to put everything together.

I was surprised when he did, and offered a summary that made more sense than anything any of us at the Yard had been able to come up with.

"You're gaping." The Doctor informed me.

"I – Can you write that down? You may have it right, there." I pulled myself together and went back to my meal.

I stopped to look back up at the man as he chuckled.

Then I froze.

I thought it through, the risks, the benefits, the drawbacks, the possibility of it being acceptable, the possibility of it working.

Doctor Watson waited patiently for me to finish thinking.

I did, and came to a conclusion.

We could use another Police Surgeon anyway.

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Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.


End file.
